Chapter 3 - The Flight from Boston
The descent through the hospital’s freight elevator was suffocatingly tense. The only sounds were the mechanical groan of the cables and the shallow, rapid breathing of baby Luca. Giovanni stood at the front of the elevator car, his eyes fixed on the floor indicator lights, his hand resting openly on the grip of a customized Glock pistol.
"When the doors open, we move fast," Giovanni instructed, not looking back. "Marco has an armored Suburban waiting in the underground loading dock. Dr. Sullivan, you and Lauren will get in the back row with the baby. I will be in the front passenger seat. If anyone shoots, get on the floor."
Lauren squeezed Luca closer to her chest, whispering prayers into his soft, dark hair. "I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry," she mumbled continuously.
The elevator chimed, and the heavy metal doors slid open.
The loading dock was dark, illuminated only by the harsh yellow glow of safety lights. A massive, midnight-black SUV sat waiting, its engine idling with a low, predatory rumble. Two of Giovanni’s guards stood near the rear doors, rifles drawn and held tight against their chests.
"Clear!" Marco yelled, motioning them forward.
They rushed across the concrete floor. Dr. Sullivan climbed in first, quickly setting up the portable vitals monitor he had grabbed from the ER. Lauren scrambled in after him, holding Luca tightly. Giovanni slammed the door behind them and climbed into the front, the heavy armored door shutting out the sound of the rain with a solid, vault-like thud.
"Go," Giovanni ordered the driver.
The SUV accelerated violently, tires screeching against the wet concrete as it burst out of the underground dock into the blinding torrential rain of the Boston night.
Almost immediately, the radio cracked to life. "Boss, we’ve got tail lights. Two black sedans just pulled out of the parking garage behind you. They’re accelerating fast."
"Lose them," Giovanni said coldly. "But do not lead them toward the airport. Take the bypass."
Lauren looked out the tinted rear window. Through the sheets of rain, she could see the bright high-beams of two vehicles closing the distance. The armored Suburban swerved sharply, throwing her against the leather seat. She braced herself, shielding Luca’s body with her own.
"His heart rate is spiking," Dr. Sullivan shouted over the roar of the engine. "The stress and the movement are making the fever worse. It’s up to 103.8. We need to get him stable, fast!"
"Giovanni!" Lauren cried out, panic piercing her voice. "We can't keep doing this! He can't take it!"
Giovanni turned around in his seat, his face a mask of iron determination, though his eyes flared with a desperate worry. "We are two minutes from the tarmac, Lauren. Hang on."
Suddenly, a loud, metallic crack echoed through the vehicle. The rear window webbed with a thousand tiny cracks but held—bulletproof glass. The Valenti men were shooting.
"Return fire," Giovanni ordered into his radio. "Take out their tires. I want them dead before we hit the airport perimeter."
Through the cracked rear window, Lauren watched in horror as a trailing security SUV driven by Giovanni’s men pulled alongside the first Valenti sedan. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark, rainy highway like strobe lights. The Valenti vehicle veered violently to the left, smashing into a concrete median barrier in a spectacular shower of sparks and twisted metal.
The second sedan, realizing it was outgunned, slammed on its brakes, spinning out on the wet asphalt and fading into the darkness behind them.
The Suburban didn't slow down. It blew through a secure security gate at Logan Airport, where a sleek, private Gulfstream jet sat waiting on the tarmac, its engines already whining to life. A team of three medics in sterile scrubs stood at the bottom of the air-stairs, holding a specialized mobile incubator.
The SUV stopped hard. Giovanni was out of the door before it had fully settled. He opened the rear door and reached in, his large hands gently but firmly taking Luca from Lauren’s arms.
"I’ve got him," Giovanni said, his voice cracking slightly as he looked down at his son. "I’ve got you, Luca."
They raced up the stairs into the warm, brightly lit interior of the jet. The medics immediately took Luca, placing him on a specialized stretcher, attaching new leads, and administering an intravenous cooling fluid to bring the fever down.
As the jet taxied toward the runway, completely bypassing commercial protocols, Lauren collapsed onto one of the luxurious leather seats, burying her face in her hands. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a hollow, terrifying exhaustion.
A glass of amber liquid appeared in her field of vision. She looked up to see Giovanni standing over her, holding a glass of scotch. The fury that had driven him across state lines was gone, replaced by a deep, brooding quiet.
"Drink it," he said softly. "You're shaking."
She took the glass but didn't drink. She just held it, using the warmth of the crystal to thaw her frozen fingers. "Are we safe?"
May you like
Giovanni sat across from her, his long legs stretching out in the cabin. He looked older than he had fifteen months ago. There were new lines around his eyes, and the shadow of a life lived in constant warfare weighed heavily on his shoulders.
"For the next forty-five minutes, while we are in the air, yes," Giovanni said, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated beneath the sound of the jet engines. "But when we land in New York, the real war begins. And you and I need to talk about why my son was hidden in a two-bedroom apartment in Boston while I was mourning the death of my family."
